Because puberty can be confusing,god made acne to give you one thingto be sure to hate, to hide, to blame for the dim lightsand sticky shirts and showers mid-day. They warned metestosterone could do this. Diabetes. Heart problems.Anger like a rock inside a clump of snow.The only time my grandmother touched my motherwas praying over her womb, saying boy boy boy when reallyshe meant history history history. The only timeshe brought her food was the red ginseng, the bitter melonas if a full mouth always gives you what you want.Everytime my mother tells my birth story it changes.A crucifix showing up in a dream, a dream of her boy runningthrough the field, an altar of ocean rock, mugwort,one blue shoe. When I arrived and the doctor yelled yeoja,not a boy, my grandmother walked out of the room.To arrive then is to let your name be pluckedfrom a stem while the other leaves die. Grandmotherdied without forgiving my mother for neverbearing sons, two years before I look up adult acneand grindr dates with lights offand what insurance lets you arrive changedinstead of changing while everyone can see and askyou stupid questions forgetting they toohave access to google. God was slow to birthlanguage that could be a mirroror a car to drive home in, so I arrive late and outof breath, driving only a little over the speed limittowards a skyline that could be everythingI’ve ever wanted, everything my mother was afraid to name.